“I will make myself presentable first, then read it. A few minutes won’t change the fact that the black-hearted devil is dead.”
He pretended not to hear Alice’s gasp of surprise. Of course, she was shocked by his reaction to the news of his father’s passing. Alice Steele came from a real family—one where the members actually gave a damn about one another. Stephen couldn’t remember a time when his sire had ever shared an ounce of affection with him.
And that’s because it never happened.
In his room, he shrugged out of his jacket and bloodied shirt, letting them drop on the floor. He would bundle them up later and get Bob to take them to the local washerwoman in nearby Pudding Lane. She knew exactly what to do with those kinds of stains. And also, how to keep her mouth shut.
From his battered travel trunk, he retrieved a fresh, clean shirt. The act of dressing occupied his mind, keeping it from tempting thoughts of regret. Stephen was a master when it came to avoiding unwelcome emotions.
With his attire now set to rights, he checked himself in the mirror. A flannel and some water from a pitcher removed the remaining traces of last night’s dirty work from his face and hands. The Marquess of Witham would live and hopefully had learned a painful lesson from his near-death experience. Hopefully.
He closed the door of his room and calmly walked back along the hallway. Stepping into the main office space once more, he gave his assembled friends a wan smile.
Let’s get this over and done with.
He retrieved the lawyer’s letter and slipping his thumb under the wax seal, broke it open. A quick read confirmed the news. His father, Sir Robert Moore, was indeed no longer among the living.
There were a few other pertinent details regarding balances held on deposit with various financial institutions and mention of the title deeds to the family home in Witley, but other than that, there were no actual details about how his sire had died.
No surprise there.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” said Alice. The heavily pregnant wife of his fellow rogue of the road came to Stephen, arms open wide, offering comfort. He reluctantly accepted her attempted hug.
It was odd to be receiving any form of consolation over the death of a man he barely knew. A man he would not grieve.
When a tearful Alice finally released him from her attentions, Stephen turned to the other men. “Did my father’s solicitor say anything else?”
Monsale sighed. “Apparently, he got into a fight with someone a week ago and a knife was produced. In the ensuing brawl, your father was stabbed. He died at Moore Manor the day before yesterday.”
And no one thought to send word to me because they assumed, I wouldn’t bother to make the trip all the way to Surrey.
Stephen wasn’t completely sure what he would have done if someone had arrived on the doorstep of the RR Coaching Company during the past week and announced that his father was at death’s door.
Probably sent them away with a flea in their ear.
Alice took a hold of Stephen’s hand and gave it a reassuring pat. “When was the last time you saw your father? I hope it was a moment that you are now able to treasure.”
His mind was suddenly filled with the memory. It hadn’t been pleasant then, and the pain of it still burned even now. “I haven’t seen my father in six years. I spied him across a crowded card table at Whites club. When I raised my glass of brandy in salute to him, he didn’t even bother to acknowledge me,” replied Stephen.
Harry came to his wife’s side. “I’m sorry, my dear, but not all families are as close as yours or even mine for that matter. Sir Robert was never one for his relatives.”
For the first time since he had received the news of his father’s death, a pang of longing and regret pierced the fortress wall which surrounded Stephen’s heart.
Explaining his parents to other people had always been a great source of humiliation for him. His mother had abandoned him not long after birth. After she had returned to her family in Scotland, she refused pointedly to ever have anything to do with him.
His father had been little better. He had housed, fed, and paid for his son’s education, but that had been the extent of things. Familial relationships were not part of the Moore family way of life.
“Alice, thank you for your kind thoughts. I really do appreciate them. It is sad that my father is dead, but even sadder to know he wouldn’t give a damn if I cried over him or not.” Tears pricked at Stephen’s eyes, and he hurriedly blinked them back.
His gaze drifted over Alice’s head and landed on Monsale. His friend gave a brief nod. If anyone in the room could understand how he was feeling right now, it was the Duke of Monsale. Only Andrew McNeal could best Stephen when it came to having a cold, detached, and dead father.
“Well, I suppose it means a trip down to Witley is in order to claim the body and arrange a decent burial,” said Stephen.
His father’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Stephen had plenty of other pressing matters to deal with in London. Important things.
“Would you like us to come? I expect having some friends standing alongside you at the graveside would be nice,” offered George.
Stephen considered George’s kind proposal for the briefest of moments, then shook his head. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to waste your time. The grave service will be short and without fanfare. Considering how Sir Robert lived his life, I don’t anticipate having to deal with a crowd of weeping mourners.”
